


punctum

by loyaulte_me_lie



Series: camera obscura [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Barricade Day 2019, M/M, Modern AU, Photographer AU, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 05:26:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19100605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyaulte_me_lie/pseuds/loyaulte_me_lie
Summary: “Were you now?” R is busy unhooking camera bags, throwing them inelegantly across a divan. “Couldn’t have guessed. When you say something that confidently, you have to deal with the consequences.” // or // Enjolras is running for president, Grantaire is a photographer, and their first meeting goes somewhat like this.





	punctum

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by meet-me-behind-the-musain's post on Tumblr, and man, sorry for the fic splurge, it is all happening and I have so much free time right now and I'm like a child who cannot keep her fics to herself and spread them out slowly. 
> 
> No trigger warnings necessary as far as I know.

**June 2010 | Paris**

The photographer is late. Enjolras breathes, slowly, tries to refrain from checking his watch. The only reason he’d agreed to this interview, this photoshoot is that Éponine had glared him into it, had told him under no uncertain terms that campaigning for president means keeping up appearances. So he’d gone, and the interviewer - a fellow named Marius Pontmercy, someone Éponine apparently used to be neighbours with - wasn’t too awful, asked halfway insightful questions and barely skimmed Enjolras’ personal life, for which he’s grateful by default. There was also no flirting. These are the two things he hates about being so outspoken, about deciding to run for president at thirty five, about being considered traditionally attractive by the masses: everyone thinks his private life is up for grabs, and everyone thinks he owes them something. ‘Not interested’ rarely translates through. Perhaps “I’m gay” would. He’s never truly _hidden_ it from the world, he’s perfectly comfortable in his sexuality (or usual lack thereof) but he’d rather like to keep it off the table until he’s in a position of power, until his future doesn’t depend on public opinion.

But anyway. The interview was passable, the photographer is late, and he is due at the campaign HQ soon. They’re leaving Paris for the south, extending the campaign. Every moment counts.

There is a bang, like the report of a gun, but it’s just the door hitting the opposite wall, and a dishevelled-looking man is lugging a tripod and heavy-looking box into the room. Camera cases are looped inelegantly over his shoulders; they thump together as he moves. Enjolras notes his long, shaggy black hair, the defiant eyebrows, the warm brown skin, the crooked nose, ruddy cheeks, and tattoos crawling up his arms, slight softness around the middle, and thinks vaguely about stereotypes of artists. Except the fact this man is already throwing him a grin that Enjolras does not return, a grin that is not inherently mocking and deeply attractive, it is _not,_ he has _no time_ for this kind of thing. Maybe afterwards. Maybe after he’s done his bit for the world. There’s no point thinking about settling down until then.

“You’re late,” he says, severely.

“No I’m not, I’m R,” the photographer, R, replies with that mocking grin again. It’s a weak comeback, and not the apology Enjolras’ icy disdain usually elicits from people.

“I was referring to your timekeeping, not your name.”

“Were you now?” R is busy unhooking camera bags, throwing them inelegantly across a divan. “Couldn’t have guessed. When you say something that confidently, you have to deal with the consequences.”

Enjolras’ stomach flips in a way that is not entirely unpleasant. He leans forward on the edge of the chair. R is moving fast, setting up his tripod, his fingers sure and steady.

“When you’re in politics if you’re _not_ confident, you’ll be eaten alive and spat out,” he says.

“Like Charybdis,” R muses. “Except with her, confidence is just going to get you killed even faster. Suit jacket off.”

“I have no idea how the National Assembly is supposed to compare to a giant whirlpool monster,” Enjolras says. “And why?”

“And I never thought I’d hear the words “giant whirlpool monster” out of a politician's mouth, my day has been _made._ ” R flutters a hand in a dramatic fashion. “Yeah, well, all of your previous magazine covers are, you know, fully besuited and, like ‘I am a serious man of politics, fear me.’”

“You’ve seen the other magazines?”

R rolls his eyes. “Not out of choice. I don’t follow politics, but I _do_ do my research for a job.”

“Well,” Enjolras finds himself unexpectedly struggling for words. Why? Why now? He can make a speech in front of a crowd at the drop of a hat, why is his brain coming up blank? “I am serious. Politics is serious. The fate of the world is at stake.”

“The fate of the world is at stake,” R mimics, and then laughs. “Listen to yourself. Sure, it might be, but people aren’t going to vote for another boring white-man machine no matter how pretty his face or radical his policies. You need to be human or you’re never going to get anywhere. Roll up your shirtsleeves.”

Enjolras scowls, but does as he’s told, following the rest of R’s directions until he’s shoeless, tie half undone, sitting cross-legged in a chair like Jehan would, hair messed up and feeling profoundly uncomfortable. There's no point fighting an artistic muse. He's been friends with Jehan and Feuilly long enough to know that.

“Relax,” R says, ducking behind the camera. “You look constipated.”

“I do not!”

“You’re not the one who can see your face, buddy. Do you _ever_ unwind?”

Enjolras thinks of the night after the announcement, the party at Courfeyrac’s, everyone in their pyjamas digging into the hilarious cake Feuilly had made for them at the bakery where he works. Each of them had had a small icing figurine. They’d stayed up half the night watching stupid movies and getting drunk, just like in university, and Enjolras had woken up the next morning with a nasty taste in his mouth, cuddled up on the sofa with Courfeyrac and Combeferre because they couldn’t be bothered to move to the actual beds Courfeyrac has in his apartment.

“Yes,” he says, shortly. “With my friends.”

“Well, pretend I’m one of your friends, then.”

He tries for a second, and then drops it. R takes a few more pictures, and then looks at them. “Nope. Still constipated. Okay, well, just talk to me. Tell me something random. I don’t want the campaign spiel, god knows I’m sick to death of the presidential campaign already and it’s been going less than a month.”

“Do you vote?” Enjolras asks.

R shakes his head. “Can’t be bothered.”

“That is a lazy excuse.”

“Says the man who’s never struggled having his voice heard in the room. When you’re privileged, it’s easier to assume people want to hear what you have to say.”

“True. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t fight so others can get that opportunity you got handed as an accident of birth.”

R gives him a slow look over the top of the camera, and Enjolras lifts his chin, holds it. There’s a click, and then R’s smiling, less mocking now. “Alright. Tell me about the voting system.”

“You’ve _never_ voted?”

“I only got my citizenship three years ago. First presidential election, yippee!”

"Oh, okay. If you're sure."

"Hit me baby one more time," R half-sings, and Enjolras rolls his eyes, launches into an explanation of the presidential voting campaigns in France, and through R’s questions ends up on the history of voting, the French Revolution, and then, bizarrely, a left turn into favourite cake. That one was probably Marie-Antoinette’s fault, as much as one can blame a two-hundred-year dead queen for something. All the while, he’s vaguely aware that R has been taking photos, but he’s too caught up in his subject, in R’s responses - mostly sarcastic, sometimes interested - dark brown eyes strangely focussed and intense. Eventually they reach a lull, and Enjolras glances down at his wristwatch, swears under his breath. Right on time, his phone starts buzzing.

“I’m going to have to go,” he says. “Sorry. Did you get what you needed?”

“Yeah, should have,” R digs in his pocket as Enjolras hurriedly rolls down his sleeves, re-ties his shoes. He stands, shrugs back into his suit jacket. There’s a moment when they’re just standing and kind of looking at each other, and Enjolras thinks that he doesn’t want to go, that he wants to stay and keep talking and see what other sarcastic nonsense comes barrelling out of R’s mouth, but he can’t he’s…

“Here,” R says, holding out a card. “In case you need me. Well, a photographer. But also me. To make you lighten up if you find yourself getting too stuck up your own arse.”

Enjolras finds himself fighting a smile, taking the card and tucking it into his pocket. “I’ll certainly keep it in mind. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” R gives him a salute, and Enjolras phone buzzes angrily again. “Better deal with the wasp you apparently have inhabiting your trousers.”

“Éponine,” Enjolras rolls his eyes, takes the phone. “Hello. Yes, I am on my way down, you didn’t need to send a car…”

“Yes I did,” Éponine says. “You’re late, for the first time _ever._ Are you feeling okay?”

Enjolras looks over his shoulder in the doorway, paused at the top of the stairs of the magazine offices. Grantaire is looking at him, still, lifts a hand in farewell again and Enjolras feels his stomach clench. _Get it together,_ he thinks fiercely, and turns to go down the stairs. “Fine,” he says. “I’m feeling fine.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come Tumblr with me: @barefoot-pianist.
> 
> Sad one to be posted tomorrow and then I will slow down I promise.


End file.
